


That Alien Feeling...

by TehBEChocolate



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Multi, Other, Shepard needs money, and doesn't have enough to buy a freaking translator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 13:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehBEChocolate/pseuds/TehBEChocolate
Summary: After a life of hardships, being seen as either a toy or a pickpocket, how can one find the strength to trust others?





	1. Prologue: Time’ essence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably gonna regret it...
> 
> This is the FIRST published work (at least on my own) that I intend to write more than 150 half-assed words for, thus my FIRST Mass Effect fiction, and I speak FRENCH (OMG GUYS HE SPEAKS BAGUETTE), so I _beg_ you all to report any error you see.
> 
> With that in mind, hopefully you still enjoy this somehow. <3

Thirty years can be a long time.

 

When mankind discovered the relays, it helped them leap in the future scientifically speaking. By all accounts, possibilities until then not even thought of could be explored, exploited, experienced. In some fields, the discovery of so many cultures, species, technologies was indeed of utmost importance, and truly life-changing.

In others, the discoveries were more modest.

It is not to say that there were none, of course. But these were the kind of things that could not easily be fully rethought by the mere reveal of new solar systems, inhabited by different sentient species, as odd as that might sound.

 

Mikhail Dimitrovich Ulianov is a perfect example of that. Thirty years after humanity joined in the colonisation of the whole galaxy, he and his professional peers have not seen much change for them. Well, not in their research that is.

He himself, originally supposed to be a researcher in extraterrestrial languages and dialects, was demoted due to lack of topics to explore, becoming a simple translator/interpret in all four Quarian dialects, a job virtually useless considering the widespread use of automatic translating systems, integrated in suits or as implants. This lead him on different ships as a non-specialist mechanic, a job he had to work hard to achieve with even acceptable results; non-specialist meant disposable though, and after a few months of barely average results, he’d typically get a message telling him not to come back after the next shore leave, leaving him to find a shuttle to the next recruitment desk.

————————————————

Until he got on the Normandy. The ship itself was... beautiful. The best technology the Alliance could get, he was told, and that’s what he got indeed. Beside that, many people from many backgrounds,all of them generally nice, even friendly towards him, composed the bulk of the team, and mostly alien specialists and one, very welcoming captain, were not helping him not getting comfortable around them. Heck, he had left Earth and his native Cheliabinsk at the sweet age of 15, during his rebel phase (God knows what gave him the idea of that fluorescent green back then; good thing he’s back to more reasonable choices such as... blue...), leaving his family, friends and home in the proverbial dust; all the ensuing years he had only slept in a simple bulk bed, shared with shipmates, or in just-comfortable-enough hotels on Nos Astra or some other, and he’d had no time to even think of finding a permanent place for him to go back to in times of need, which made the idea of being surrounded with caring people, teammates he could actually call friends in most cases, and inspirations such as Sephyria Shepard were more than good enough to keep him, and the others, eager for more adventuring.

He had gotten on before the affair on Eden Prime, and after the death of Saren could hardly believe he had once been a bored, desperate young man with no aim in his life. The whole thing had changed him, and had him reconsider the worth of risking his life in such way. Not for long though; he was quick to decide that he wouldn’t leave this ship until it destruction.

Which came faster than he thought actually.

In the emergency shuttle he had just seen a member of the crew die from, he hoped against hope that this wouldn’t be the end. That it would be back again, no matter what it took for it.

The announced death of Shepard crushed these thoughts, and there he was, back to square one, looking for something to do with himself now that the only thing he had been living for these last two years had burst in flames.

After a few months, as desperate as he had been once, he joined an organisation called Cerberus.

————————————————

When he learnt about the Normandy SR2, he started crying. Then started jumping, hugging the startled bunk mate that had given the announcement.

He was back to business.

 

He rapidly got back into it, even with all the changes in crew, and him not needed downstairs. He was assigned a surveillance job on the CIC level, which was way more lively than the fourth one he would have had to go to otherwise.

The missions were quick to start popping. Not straining to him nor to most crew members, but he could still feel the thrill of all the planning he was sure the commander had to be doing with Miranda and Jacob.

And it is now, two weeks after the return of the Normandy, and for the first time in years, that Mikhail «Mickey» Dimitrovich Ulianov is needed for his original skills: the mastering of the Quarian languages.


	2. And the day’s main event is...

I’m whistling in my bed, near the door to the corridor, singing an old song stuck in my mind for hours.

I know that it will only make it more persistent, trust me; in fact, that’s all the more reason for me to go on with it.

I’ve always been communist at heart, and though necessity has made me quite strict with how much money I threw the way of good causes, my ideals are still the same; as a Siberian, which is an ancient Russian territory, it only makes sense for me to sing old Red Army songs then, right? Besides, Kalinka is a catchy song, and not really a communist one.

...

Jesus Christ, am I a walking stereotype.

None of that really matters to me anyway, I just like it; alas, none of that really matters to Joker either, he just doesn’t give a shit.

“Ulianov, the commander wants you on deck 2 ASAP; don’t keep her waiting too long, she’s already stressed enough.”

My ears perk at the news that of all people, I am the one summoned by Commander Shepard. Oh well, need a first time to everything, right?

Sighing, I make my way to the elevator, and meet Ulrich there, one of these few within the crew that are really not anti-alien; people like him (and the commander’s yeoman) are a rarity here, with a good part being Cerberus for their distrust, or even disgust, of non-human species.

“So, the commander wants you, huh? Guess she reaaaally is desperate for some help.”

I smirk, and poke him in the ribs. “Oh, not that desperate yet. I haven’t heard her call your name so far, so I think we’re still doing fine.”

“Well, it all depends on what she needs help with. Might be true if she wants love advice though...”

Ulrich works not far from my own seat. He’s to help Joker with different nav calibrations; one of the best when it comes to his job, he happens to be among the worst when it comes to social interactions of any kind, let alone romantic topics. At least I have had a girlfriend.  
(Once. When I was 6. And it was my cousin. But that’s beside the point.)

When I reach my destination, Ulrich not far behind (he does work here after all), I get excited at the sight in front of me; Shepard, accompanied by Tali’Zorah and Garrus (to be expected: all three were already lovers on the previous Normandy, don’t see how a simple death could have changed any of it), and, looking down the (admittedly very interesting) floor...another Quarian. A new one. One I’ve never seen before.

This could be very interesting.

Going up to the group in front of me, I make myself announced;  
“Commander, did you need something?”  
Turning to me, the commander smiles at me, clearly tired and stressed out.  
“Ulianov, yes! I read in your files you might be of very, VERY much needed help. Remember the distress call we received?”  
I do remember, and nod to confirm it. A dozen hours ago, a distress signal was received from a small meteor, going by the sweet name of DT-238. Looks like I’m about to see the results of the ensuing mission.

“Well, this young lady you can see here” she waves the unknown stranger, who is still hiding behind Tali, “has apparently been captured by slavers on Illium, but been able to escape them via evac shuttle. We don’t know much about her, as she’s not willing to open up. Add to that the problem of her lost translator, our lack of replacement and of time and resources to get a new one, and you’ll get the gist of her situation. And I can’t let Tali’Zorah be her interpret 24/7, she’s needed elsewhere.” She’s looking back at me. “Your files are telling me you’ve studied Quarians languages, and that you’re an empathic and a good psychologist. If all of that is true, I’d like to assign you to this poor woman. Get to know her, try to be there for her; heck, befriend her if you can. All I want is a name and age by the end of the week. We’ll go from there and find some info about her.”

I don’t quite understand why we couldn’t simply buy a new translator, but then I remember we have spent all our resources, money, probes and fuel on upgrades for the Normandy. No new Cerberus mission yet, and no other new sources of money, so we’re stuck with what little we have.

“Will do, Commander. Just to clarify though ma’am, if Tali’Zorah herself, being a Quarian, daughter of one of admirals of the Fleet, wasn’t able to help her, how could I, an unknown human, a nobody from a species that they don’t particularly trust, have better results?”

She smiles and snorts at the question, but I can’t tell if it’s genuine laughter, sarcasm, or mockery. Seconds later she controls herself. “You see, we have a very competent psychologist and a very respected Quarian on board. The problem is that the former is unable to speak a single Quarian word, and the latter is... not the most articulate.” She kisses the helm of her younger lover. “No offense, pretty girl. You know I love that.” She’s now caressing her shoulder. How are they so cute, FFS?

She’s now looking back at me, “I don’t know you well, but I’ve been advised to trust your abilities in this situation. So I ask of you to be there for her, to translate every little thing happening around, to be there for her, and to follow her as much as possible, as long as it’s out of her bedroom. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am!” I salute, and prepare my voice and mind for the main Quarian dialect when I turn to her; it’s been a long time since I last practised with a native.


	3. Strangers

They’re nice.

I have to keep repeating that, or I’ll forget it.

They’re nice. And genuine, it seems.

 

I honestly didn’t expect Admiral Zorah’s daughter to be here. With the Commander Shepard. I didn’t expect much from that ship in the first place when I first saw it in fact; yet another group of slavers, passers-by, heck, the Alliance were all possibilities.

But Cerberus? That immediately meant bad news in my mind. I had heard as a child their deeds, their speciest views of the galaxy; more than enough for me to be weary of them and all they’re associated with.

To see a Quarian here, such a respectable one no less, even if only by blood, was a surprise. And I’m still unsure whether it’s a good one at all.

I dearly hope she’s undercover, that all of them are faking their trust in that organisation.

 

I mean, I can’t do much more than hope they’re all actually the way Tali’Zorah is describing them, now can I?

Thank the slavers for that.

 

And now they’re talking. And I don’t know what about, yet again. And Shepard is kissing Miss Zorah.

Huh.

I didn’t know she swung that way.

 

Mhh? Is that human trying to talk to me? Heh, good luck. Wasn’t briefed about my comm « problems » I guess.

"Good day ma’am. I hope you do not mind if I ask whether I am properly speaking?"

It takes me a few stunned seconds to reply, "Er, you’re speaking well enough."

Wow.

 

Keelah, did I...

Did he actually?

 

Wow.

Definitely not real Cerberus.

————————————————

I have to admit, this man knows how to make me feel comfortable. Two hours of constant discussion have left me more relaxed than I have been in years. Talking about my interests, my suit colour and its history, his youth, any subject that wouldn’t branch to a sensitive topic really. He didn’t even ask my name; maybe sensed that I didn’t want to talk about it, or just generally nice. Either way, this Mikhail has been able to put me at ease.

"I’m just so glad I was able to talk with you, properly I mean. It’s been too long since I last spoke your language."

He has told me about his studies; it’s flattering, in a way, that someone took the time to study our culture assiduously enough to master our dialects.

“No need to worry, sir. You mastered it perfectly. And I am myself very happy to know I’m not alone anymore...”

“To every crewmenber available, be aware that our Commander has given us the opportunity to rest! We’re arriving to the Citadel in two hours, so get ready for a whole week of fuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-“

Cut off. Huh.

They have a very effective VI.

 

He turns to me. “So, have you ever been to a Citadel bar?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy, 3 chapters at once
> 
> Totally not because I hesitated posting long enough for me to write more chapters


End file.
